The weeks are busy, temperatures falling like the leaves. Gusty winds cause the trees to litter bright yellow and deep brown detritus on the sidewalk. As I’m watching, a dark red leaf is whipped into the street by the wind and smacks someone in the face. They start visibly and rub their cheek. Strange that a leaf can hurt like a word.

I’ve been helping a lot, recently, with a person who will remain anonymous (privacy, yo). They are losing life skills and sometimes boundaries. We went to breakfast recently and they asked me whether a specific individual was circumcised. That’s not even their most recent embarrassing question. I handled it like a champ, but not all of the people in hearing range were as comfortable. It was, you see, quite loudly asked. 

Things they said (in a NOT-a-whisper whisper) during our breakfast: Is that person a boy or a girl? There should be better portion control (as a very large person walks by). This bill is wrong (it wasn’t). I don’t like eggs (they ordered eggs). It makes me laugh but also it can be sooo awkward. A few weeks ago, I took them to the farmers market and they said, “I don’t like honey” to the beekeeper. It’s like social media. I’m caretaking the person who, if they could understand social media, would reply to your blueberry pie post with, “I don’t like pie.” Words that could, with a tiny bit of effort, reside only in their head fall out of their mouth like items falling out of an open backpack hanging off a jogger’s shoulders. 

Unfortunately for me, our relationship could be characterized–on my part–as obligatory. We aren’t friends and, prior to their cognitive decline, we weren’t even particularly friendly. They rely on me now. I help willingly, even though, some days, this person says things so smack-worthy that I have to take a deep breath before I reply. The problem(?) is that, although there is undoubtedly a world in which I could just walk away, I don’t live in it. My kids ask me sometimes why I continue to help. There are so many reasons but possibly the most important is that I won’t treat this person the way they treat everyone. I will, I am determined to, act toward this person the way I think I should act. I won’t be like them. I will look back on my own behavior knowing that I did the best I could, not the least that I was able, though, occasionally, I have told them that if they don’t knock it off they will be walking home.

In a strange coincidence, two people in my life are declining cognitively. Unkindly, the one for whom I would do anything lives two hours away. Because she has sundowner’s, it is kindest to visit before lunch. After lunch, as the day lengthens into evening, her fear and anxiety overcome her conditioning; she lashes out physically and verbally. So, yes, planning is involved in every visit. I leave the house early, grab an iced tea from the coffee shop, and get on the road with a downloaded audiobook before 8AM. When I can see Lake Erie gleaming deep gray on the horizon, I know I’m almost there. If traffic favored me, I’ll have time to get breakfast, most recently at The Original Breakfast Stop. No matter what, though, I have to go to Romolo’s and get not-my-Aunt G her peppermint patties. Her favorite treat used to be chocolate chip cookies but something she can’t explain changed her preference. 

There is a particular grief to watching the end of days for someone you’ve known your whole life. My not-my-Aunt Ginny is a core person for me. My earliest memories include her. In my youth, months sometimes passed when I didn’t see her, but she’s always been there, a weight-bearing pillar of my existence. We’re not related by blood but she’s as close as any who are. She calls me one of her two girls. She can’t reliably remember my name, but she remembers that. 

Often, on my visits, I’ll push her wheelchair around the facility so she can wave to everyone. In the past, she told me stories that conflated the residents with former boyfriends, neighbors, and her six siblings. The stories were good, sometimes racy, and probably partially true, though it’s impossible to know for certain. Everyone I could ask is gone. None of that matters, though. The connection is the important part. 

We’ve reached that place in dementia, though, where we spend most of our visits just sitting next to each other, holding hands. She struggles to find words now and to maintain a thought long enough to say a full sentence. Often, she’ll start to say something, search for a word from the garbled data in her brain, and trail off without realizing it. One of these days she’ll stop entirely. Hand-holding will be all that’s left, then, and it will still be all that matters. 

Much love.